Lesson 8: I’m Now “That” Mom
When the Consultant Becomes the Client
I remember the first time a parent in my practice asked, “What on earth do I tell my neighbors when they ask where my child is?”
Back then, the answer felt simple. I’d gently suggest they share only the pieces that felt safe, or—if they wanted—to say proudly that their child was away doing the bravest work a person can do: healing. I offered a listening ear, a few sample scripts, and my unwavering confidence that they would figure it out.
It was easy advice to give when I didn’t have to live it.
Fast‑forward to Charli’s birth, nothing went as planned. She came early. We spent from Thanksgiving to St. Patrick's day in the hospital with her. Hydrocephalus, a VP shunt, endless appointments, and more acronyms than I ever cared to learn—suddenly I was the one trying to decide how much of our story to reveal at the park, in line at the grocery store, or in a quick text thread with friends.
And just like that, I became “that mom.”
Does this sound familiar?
The Weight of What to Say—and Where We Fit
I’m naturally open. Story‑sharing is woven into my DNA (thank you mom and dad), and for years I’ve believed that transparency can heal. But I’ve learned there’s a fine line between vulnerability and overload:
I fear burdening others. When someone asks how we’re doing, the truthful answer involves neurosurgery follow‑ups, four different therapies in a single Tuesday, and the ache of wondering if I’m doing any of it “right.” That feels heavy to place in someone’s hands at a backyard barbecue.
I worry about fitting in—now and later. Today, Charli’s faint scars are hidden beneath wisps of hair, and her petite frame means most people assume she’s a younger baby. They don’t realize she recently turned one and a half—and isn’t crawling or walking yet. I know the questions will come. Will we stick out at playgroup? Am I supposed to explain why my toddler isn't toddling?
The dissonance reminds me of so many families I work with: “My child is so bright,” they tell me, “but every afternoon they melt down after school.” On the outside, these kids look fine; on the inside, their nervous systems are working overtime. Our story is the same song, different verse—visible success in one frame, invisible struggle in another.I question my own competence. Friends tell me Charli is “so lucky” to have me. Most days I pray they’re right, because I second‑guess nearly every decision: enough therapy vs. too much therapy, push for inclusion vs. protection from exhaustion…the list is endless.
These thoughts have nudged me into retreat. I respond less in group chats. I say “maybe next time” to coffee invites. I shrink my world, not because I don’t love my friends, but because I don’t trust my ability to carry the whole story without spilling it everywhere.
Hearing My Own Advice—Again
In quieter moments, I replay the guidance I once offered other parents and realize it’s exactly what I need to hear:
Before you read this, close your eyes, take a deep breath, and see if any of this resonates for you.
Build your “inner circle” on purpose.
A handful of people can hold the unfiltered version of your life. Identify them, thank them, and lean in.Share selectively—and proudly.
Not everyone needs the medical details, but I can still speak with confidence: “Charli’s in intensive therapies right now, working hard and making amazing progress.”Keep showing up, even when we don’t yet fit.
The only way to find our people is to keep trying new spaces—music class, sensory gym, NICU parent group—even if it feels awkward at first. Each attempt is data, not failure.Remember why it matters.
If I don't speak up, I model silence. Charli deserves parents who talk about hard things so she learns she can, too.
Your invitation to a New Kind of Courage
Here’s what I’m learning (and re‑learning):
Bravery wears many outfits. Sometimes it looks like celebrating a therapeutic placement; sometimes it’s ordering a coffee to‑go because the baby melted down before you even sat. Both count.
Boundaries are not barricades. Choosing what to share (and with whom) protects my energy so I can keep moving forward.
Community is a moving target. Maybe that parent group wasn't the right fit. That’s okay. We’ll sign up again, somewhere else, next session.
An Invitation—for You and for Me
If you’re reading this as a fellow parent, practitioner, or friend, here’s my gentle ask:
Hold space for the messy middle stories, not just the tidy Instagram updates.
Offer specific help ("Can I make dinner for the family?") instead of broad platitudes.
Believe us when we say we’re tired and grateful, scared and strong.
And to the parent who’s becoming “that mom” or “that dad” right now: I see you. Keep speaking up, even if your voice shakes. Your child’s story—and yours—deserves to be heard, in precisely the measure that feels right for you today.
I’m walking that line with you, learning as I go, and reminding myself (again and again) that vulnerability isn’t a burden. It’s a bridge.
Here’s to building more of them—together.
If this resonated with you, please take a moment to pass this post along to another parent who needs to hear the same thing. I am committed to supporting real people who are in it. If this strikes a chord with you please reach out and let me know what stood out and one action item you’re going to take from this.
“Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome.” — Brené Brown